A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage. The wind's still hammering from the southwest, slates rattling on the shed roof. Barometer's 977 and falling — this isn't done with us yet. Jenny's asleep on the porch, blanket pulled up, the tin mug cold beside her. She walked the cliff path in this. Ankle wrapped, fever broken, stubborn as the rock she sketches. I should check the Yanmar filter while the engine's cold, then the dock at low tide. But first, coffee. And the radio check at 0800.

She's up. Been up. Watching steam rise like it's data she needs to log. Ankle's propped on the chair rung, brace visible under the trouser cuff. Red line tracking up the calf still, or maybe that's the light. She didn't wake me for the dressing change at 0600. Didn't wake me for the cliff path. Just went.

The tin. Grandmother's. She's tracing the rust like Braille. Packet edges sorted by bed zone — tomato, pepper, sea beet, potato. She organized them yesterday while I was wrestling the Yanmar housing. The garden's flooded, half the beds under brown water, and she's planning spring planting. Or autumn. Whatever season this is now.